


Lux Eterna

by Space_and_Thyme



Series: You Are My Lucky Star [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, 1936, Art School, Artist Steve Rogers, Because Bucky is honestly brilliant, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Engineer Bucky Barnes, Gen, Inventor Bucky Barnes, Irish Steve Rogers, Jealous Steve Rogers, Life Model Bucky Barnes, Life modeling, Nude Modeling, Oil Painting, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Scottish Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, and I hate the trope of him being the stupid one in this relationship, because no one gives Bucky credit for how intelligent he is, brief flashback to how they met, life painting, not yet a couple, oil paints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-27 13:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16220180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: No matter how  tired Bucky is after working for the last thirty odd hours, he can't stay asleep, so he decides to do something special for Steve.In which Bucky noticed Steve's disappointment at being unable to paint him in the studio light, and takes matters into his own hands.Immediately follows The Leyendecker Look





	Lux Eterna

_Friday, November 20 th, 1936._

_12:30 pm._

 

Steve hated having to wake him when they reached their stop. Asleep, especially when the rest was this desperately needed, Bucky looked years younger. At nineteen he was far from being old, but in his waking moments his eyes held the weight of ages. His eyes, and perhaps his soul itself, were older than he was – older than his physical form. But here, fast asleep with his head resting on Steve’s shoulder and his cheek pressed against the heat of Steve wrapped in his wool cardigan, Bucky finally looked like the youth that he was. Almost like a little boy all over again.

 

Somewhere over the course of the hour ride, Steve had entwined his fingers with Bucky’s – loosely holding Bucky’s right hand as it draped against Steve’s thin left thigh. He squeezed Bucky’s hand gently, just to hold onto him as Bucky’s breath came in soft exhales, warming both Steve’s cold skin and his heart. His eyes slid closed, listening to the sound of the train chugging along on the tracks – the metallic bangs and screeches that became a symphony of the ordinary, as he focused on the warmth of Bucky’s relaxed hand in his, and the heat of his breath on his neck. Steve considered it to be as close to Heaven on Earth as could be achieved.

 

But as their stop swiftly approached, the spell was broken and Steve opened his eyes – once again present in the cold and dreary November world. The only source of warmth was the man tucked into the bench seat beside him; the only source of colour was the memory of the way the photographer’s lamps glimmered and glowed like radiant sunlight off of Bucky’s olive-toned skin in the studio that morning.

 

He shook off the memory, disheartened that he’d not had the supplies to be able to capture that golden spark of sunlight on canvas. Glancing down at the sleeping man on his shoulder, he sighed to himself. Bucky had to wake up – they couldn’t stay like this until they reached the end of the line.

 

“Buck…” He murmured softly, the deep rumble of his voice barely loud enough to be heard. Bucky didn’t hear him – or if he did, it certainly wasn’t enough to break through the barrier of sleep. “Buck…” Steve tried again, a little louder this time. When, once again, Bucky didn’t stir he shook his shoulder – rattling his friend slightly.

 

Bucky’s dark brows knit together as he finally was broken from the embrace of sleep. He groaned ever so slightly, before he yawned widely and with a soft leonine roar that made Steve chuckle.

 

“Are you laughin’ at me…” Bucky’s tone was flat, with the warm rumble of sleep, but it was teasing.

 

“Only because you’re like a ridiculous cat.” Steve smiled fondly at Bucky as the man lifted himself from Steve’s shoulder and sat upright.

 

He stretched himself out with a flex, and Steve could hear the shift of the vertebrae and joints under Bucky’s skin. Bucky lifted sleepy hand as he yawned a second, less pronounced, time and ruffled out his hair once again. “I take it we’re near enough back…”

 

Steve nodded his head easily. “Five minutes out… woulda let ya sleep longer, but I figured you’d rather yawn and wake up now, than be stumblin’ off the platform.”

 

Bucky nodded as he pulled his flat cap back on, quashing his dark curls. “Thanks pal.” He shivered slightly, and rubbed his upper arms with the flats of his palms, pressing warmth back into his chilled skin as he turned his head away from Steve – glancing across the aisle and out the other window.

 

Steve’s shoulders rose with guilt. Bucky was only cold because _he_ was bundled up in his wool cardigan. He reached and started to open up the Bakelite buttons with every intention of shrugging out of the warm confines of the knitted wool, to give it back to Bucky – with the benefit of it already being snug with Steve’s body heat.

 

Bucky turned back just as Steve opened the third button on the cardigan. His brows furrowed. “Oh no. No. You’re keepin’ that on _at least_ until we’re home, ya got that?”

 

“Buck, you’re freezing – I can see it.” Steve tried to argue, but Bucky shook his head.

 

“I’m only cold ‘cause I’m tired, punk. Besides, we’ll be home soon enough… maybe ya can do me a favour though.” He hummed softly at the end of the statement as he leaned back against the bench seat and folded his arms over his chest – his eyes closing contentedly.  

 

“Sure, whataya need, Buck?”

 

“Take a nap too. Ya look like ya didn’t sleep too well last night, and I don’t want ya gettin’ sick when we’ve made it this far.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes, and decided to rib Bucky, rather than actually answer him. “You can just admit that ya still need a teddy bear, ya know.”

 

Eyes still closed as he leaned back against the seat, Bucky grinned. “Shut it, punk.”

 

Off the train, Bucky yawned widely as he slung Steve’s satchel over his shoulder again. He smeared his hand over his face as he forced himself to stay awake, even though his body was buzzing. To be honest, he barely felt anything below the middle of his chest – his legs and feet seemed to belong to someone else entirely. He felt like he was almost floating – and it slowly dawned on him that he was already on the verge of reaching dream state while awake.

 

Steve glanced up at him worriedly. “You okay, Buck?”

 

“Mmhmm…” he hummed tiredly. “Just run ragged, pal.”

 

“We’ll be home soon, Buck.” Steve nudged him lightly with his elbow, and Bucky smiled automatically.

 

In his exhausted state, Bucky’s mind wandered into memories long set aside. His smile shifted from teasing, to warm and gentle as the two of them left the station together at a leisurely pace. He was already stumbling from exhaustion – no one would ask why they walked arm in arm. Even if they did, it was an innocent action – Stevie was helping him stay on his feet after all.

 

Bucky chuckled softly against the cold November sky as Steve’s last sentence played over in his mind. He was too far gone for the laughter to make sense to anyone but him, but he shrugged his shoulders lightly when Steve gave him the hairy eyeball. “Just thinkin’ about my name, is all.”

 

Steve quirked a brow at his friend as they walked south along Smith Street. “What about it?”

 

Bucky shook his head easily. “No one ever called me _Bucky_ before you did.” His voice was soft, almost quiet, in the haze of exhaustion.

 

Steve snorted in amusement, as his mind wandered back to that day, years passed.

 

_Friday, September 24 th, 1926._

_The inside of the dumpster was both better and worse than James was expecting. It wasn’t as completely filthy as expected, but certainly the smell of rotting foodstuffs more than made up for that nauseating fact. His mother was going to pitch a fit when he got home, and he knew it. She’d tear a strip off of him, but it had been worth it!_

_James turned his head and peered through the darkness towards the scrawny kid who he’d been heaved into the dumpster after, having suddenly thrown himself into a fight with three boys who each individually dwarfed James in size and sheer meanness. But they’d been pickin’ on a boy who was smaller than him, and certainly smaller than the three. The other kid had put up a good fight for a bit – but three against one were hardly fair odds, and they’d quickly got the better of him. James had seen it, and hadn’t thought about it. He’d just acted on instinct. Throwing his slightly larger frame between the scrawny kid with the blond hair, and the three bullies. He’d snapped at them – calling them a number of unpleasant names with gusto—as he brought his fists up in the boxer’s stance his father had taught him._

_James had even landed a few good punches! Until, like with the other boy, the three bullies overpowered him._

_Before he knew it, the two of them were being thrown bodily into the dumpster behind the back of the school._

_Peering through the darkness, James’ eyes had finally adjusted a bit and he was able to see the other boy a little more clearly. The kid’s forehead was bleeding from a small gash above his eyebrow, and his lip was split. There was no doubt that his eye was starting to purple already, and would be a hell of a shiner the next morning._

_“What are ya lookin’ at?!” the sharp voice broke through the darkness and caught James’ off guard._

_His brows shot up his forehead in surprise “Nothin’! I was tryin’ ta see if you were alright, ya dumb punk!”_

_“I ain’t dumb! And I’m fine!” the kid snarled back. “No one asked ya to interfere anyway! I had ‘em on the ropes!”_

_James was at a loss – he simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The kid had to be delusional. But, James could give as good as he took, and he instantly sniped back. “If ya call getting your clock cleaned having ‘em ‘on the ropes’, than sure!”_

_Out of the darkness, a leather shoe with a hard heel came flying at James’ face. He was not fast enough to duck, as it struck him between the eyes. “Ow! What the hell was that for!?” he shouted – his voice ringing shrilly against the metal of the dumpster._

_“I was handlin’ it!”_

_“Fine! Alright” James chucked the shoe back in the kid’s direction as he rubbed his forehead with his left hand. “Ya got one helluvan arm on ya…”_

_“Why_ did _you throw yourself in?” the kid asked again, this time his voice was curious and less accusatory._

_In the darkness James shrugged his shoulders easily. “I don’t like bullies… Three of them, one a you… figured two against three were better odds…”_

_The other boy fell silent as he stared through the darkness at the kid who had thrown himself into the fight with Derek, Marcus, and Julian. He’d briefly seen the dark haired boy around the school yard since classes started up again, but only in passing. His curiosity was piqued- judging by the slight tone in the boy’s voice, he wasn’t originally from Brooklyn. Actually, he had a strange mixture of tones: Midwest, and a slight Scottish brogue laid over top of certain words._

_After a moment, the scrawny towheaded kid spoke up. “My name’s Steve…Steve Rogers.”_

_The dark-haired boy looked back with slightly widened eyes – Steve couldn’t fathom their colour in the near darkness of the dumpster, but he imagined them to be a shade of brown, to go along with his hair. After a moment, the boy answered. “I’m James… James Barnes.” He moved a little, and carefully settled himself closer to Steve – still somewhere between the boy and where he’d already been sitting._

_Steve looked James up and down, and found nothing immediately threatening about him. Shrugging to himself, he moved and closed the distance between them, until he was sitting with Bucky in the middle of the refuse covered dumpster floor.  He studied James for a moment, and suddenly decided on something._

_“Everyone’s called ‘_ James’. _”_

_James raised a brow, skeptical of what Steve was about to say. “Same for ‘Steve’ …”_

_Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, but Steve suits me… James doesn’t suit ya. James is boring.”_

_James’ other brow shot up to join the other. “What?”_

_Steve’s mind was already several steps ahead. “What’s your middle name?” he perked up._

_James just paused, completely lost by this turn of conversation. One minute the kid had been shouting at him, and throwing his shoe, and now he was asking what James’ middle name was. His brows furrowed together hesitantly. “Buchanan…”_

_“Buchanan?!” Steve snorted instantly. “What-“_

_“My Ma named me after President Buchanan…” James sighed – he always hated when people asked for his middle name. The other kids always inevitably thought it was hilarious. But, truth be told, he liked his name. Not, however, enough to go by_ Buchanan _. “And ya ain’t callin’ me that!”_

_Steve paused for a moment. “Spell it.” He finally glanced up to meet James’ eyes again._

_“What?” James was incredulous._

_“Spell it.” Steve tried again._

_James sighed and shook his head in disbelief. “B. U. C. –“ he was able to go no further, as the boy interrupted him._

_“Buck?” Steve tested the feeling of the word in his mouth. His eyes suddenly lit up. “BUCK! I’m going to call you BUCKY!”_

_James had hated it at first, he wasn’t going to lie. But, Steve was right –_ James _didn’t fit him, and_ everyone _went by James anyway. At least ‘Bucky’ was unique to him – and it was only Steve that called him that anyway._

_Honestly within a few weeks the name was familiar, and he found that he actually didn’t mind it. But mostly because it was his best friend’s name for him. He was loath to admit it, but he enjoyed the fact that Steve had all but created a new part of him – and, well, now that his family had moved to Brooklyn, wasn’t it best to leave the child he’d been behind in Indiana?_

_The name stuck, and eventually his family shifted from calling him James to Bucky as well – mostly because they heard Steve saying it so often from inside the house – and because the boy seemed to respond to the nickname faster than he did his Christian name. Especially since after their albeit strange meeting, the two boys had become fast friends – Bucky lived in Sarah Rogers’ home as much as he lived in his own parents’ home – and the same was true of Steve and the Barnes’ family home. The boys were inseparable._

That’s why he went by Bucky – why even ten years later, at nineteen, he still answered to the somewhat childish nickname. Because it’s the name that Steve had given him. Because, though it had long become habit to answer to it, _James_ had made the conscious decision time and time again to be called Bucky. And _Bucky_ is who he’d become. He couldn’t imagine going back to being regularly called James. Not for _anyone._

“I still can’t believe ya threw a shoe at my head, punk.” Bucky’s voice was gentle as he breathed a soft chuckle.

 

“And I can’t believe ya got us both thrown into a dumpster, jerk.”

 

Bucky threw his head back, howling with unbridled laughter that rang out in the all but empty midday streets. And, if that wasn’t the best sound in the world, Steve didn’t care to be corrected.

 

After a moment, Steve spoke up again. “Whatever happened to your brogue?”

 

“Hmm?” Bucky glanced down at Steve, slightly called back from the reverie he had drifted sleepily into as they walked together.

 

“We I first met ya, you had a Scottish brogue … well at least on some words – well, and especially when ya got angry. But now you’re all Brooklyn – and I haven’t heard it in years.”

 

“Oh, that… that’s easy.” Bucky shrugged effortlessly as they walked. “I spent every day an’ night with ya… ya rubbed off on me. I spent more time with ya and your accent, then I ever did with _just_ my Ma an’ Da –“ the long silenced brogue flickered back to life for just a moment, as he referred to his parents by the terms he had as a child – before it became obvious that here it was more appropriate to call them _Mom and Dad_ , or _Mother and Father_.

 

Steve liked the brogue, and he missed it when it vanished. But, he wasn’t going to tell Bucky that – he realized how much effort Bucky must have put into losing it in the first place.

 

“And after my Grandma and Grandda passed, well there wasn’t really any reason for it ta stay. So… I lost it.”

 

Steve nodded his head, “I understand… My grandparents were still in Ireland at the time… course they’ve passed now, but if I’d been around them, I’m sure I’d a had a lilt… I did like the brogue though – it was funny as hell when ya got angry- especially in your squeaky pre-pubescent voice.” He teased, and Bucky rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

 

“Oh, whatta pair we’d’a made. Little Stevie Rogers and Bucky Barnes – two Gaelic misfits with a lilt and a brogue – _superheroes_!” he laughed with a flourish of his hands, and Steve suddenly realized that Bucky had long entered the stage of exhaustion where _everything_ was funny to him.

 

“Christ, Barnes. Look at ya – I’ve gotta get ya into bed – you’re laughing at complete garbage.” He shook his head in affectionate disbelief as he smiled and guided Bucky along.

 

Twenty minutes later, Bucky was sitting on the edge of their bed, blindly staring at the far wall. He should really take his shoes off, if nothing else. He knew that. But he was also so tired that all he could do was … stare. It would have been hilarious if he wasn’t drawn so far passed the point of exhaustion that his body was twitching randomly.

 

Maybe he could just sleep fully dressed.

 

Bucky didn’t even have the time to decide what to do – before he knew it, he was out cold on the bed.

 

Steve came into the bedroom a few minutes later, and saw Bucky lying crumpled, like he’d simply collapsed under his own weight as sleep over took him. He shook his head and smiled fondly – at least _this_ Bucky only _he_ would see. Lizzie could pound salt.

 

Shaking his head, Steve manhandled Bucky over onto his back as best he could – counting on the fulcrum effect and gravity to help shift his friend’s dead weight. When Bucky’d collapsed into the pillows, Steve sighed in relief. Grabbing one foot at a time, Steve untied the scuffed oxfords and tugged them off, setting them aside on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed. Next, he disconnected Bucky’s suspenders from his trousers, and tugged them out from under Bucky’s back – followed quickly by the removal of Bucky’s belt – Steve tried not to wonder why his friend had worn both belt and suspenders, but ignored the question. Bucky’s shirt might have been a bit worn, but it was still quality, and Steve would hate to see the chambray ruined because Bucky’d slept in it and rumpled it passed salvaging. So, sighing to himself he started pushing open the buttons of the shirt, and tugged the tails free of Bucky’s trousers. He set the shirt aside, and briefly considered removing the trousers as well, again for the sake of not ruining the wool fabric… but he stopped himself. Removing Bucky’s trousers was a step too far – wasn’t it? Even though he’d done it before while Bucky was passed out drunk.

 

In the end he gave up and skinned the trousers from Bucky – laying them over the top of the night stand so that they wouldn’t wrinkle.

 

Bucky was snoring softly – not obtrusive like their former neighbor Mr. Barnaby’s had been – they’d been loud enough to rattle the walls of the apartment at odd hours of the night. Mr. Barnaby’s snoring was like a piece of heavy equipment. No, Bucky’s were soft and barely above a snuffle as Steve tugged the bedding out from under Bucky’s heavy frame and pulled the blankets up over him. Bucky’s snores were born from pure exhaustion and from lying on his back as Steve had unceremoniously dropped him. Steve watched him for a moment, and the bed seemed to call his name – telling him to come back to bed – to curl up with Bucky and sleep half the day away.

 

Well… Bucky _had_ asked him for one favour – that Steve take a nap as well, since he knew Steve didn’t sleep well the night before – Steve _never_ slept well when Bucky pulled the graveyard shift.

 

After a moment, Steve gave in. He quietly stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, before lifting the covers and crawling underneath with Bucky. The moment he was under the covers and settled into the soft but lumpy mattress, the tension started to bleed out of his body. He could feel himself relaxing – the weight of the world melting away as he settled against his pillow; eyes sliding shut.

 

Beside him, Bucky stirred in his sleep and shifted closer. With a huff of effort, he threw his sleep-heavy arm over Steve’s waist as he turned and buried himself against Steve’s shoulder, immediately falling fully asleep again.

 

Steve was asleep within seconds.

 

When he awoke hours later, the bed was empty and cold beside him. The room was dark, and glancing up at the window to the right of the bed Steve quickly noted that the sun had already set. But, being that it was late November, it was hard to estimate the time of day; it could have been five in the afternoon, or it could have been midnight.

 

Steve scrubbed at his face with his hands as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sighed softly, and wondered just how long Bucky had been up – he knew it had to have been a while for his section of the bed to be completely chilled again. Pushing himself up from the mattress, he pulled his trousers back on, and tugged his shirt on over his shoulders. He reached for Bucky’s cardigan, but stopped himself. No, they were home now… he didn’t need to wear it again. The apartment was cold, but not enough to warrant wearing Bucky’s sweater – especially not when Lizzie wasn’t here to have her face rubbed in it. He scratched at his hair, and smoothed forward as he walked to the bedroom door – the main body of the apartment beyond the only partially opened door, seemed dark as well. His brows furrowed, as he pushed the button-switch for the bedroom light. Nothing happened. Everything was still dark.

 

Steve’s brows furrowed as he looked up at the light overhead, but he couldn’t see anything in the dark. “Buck?!” He called out, not entirely sure that Bucky was even home.

 

A slight pause issued before Bucky’s voice called back from what sounded like the furthest part of the living room. “Yeah?!”

 

“Have we blown a fuse?” Steve pushed the switch off again, waiting to hear back.

 

In the living room, Bucky’s eyes were scanning over his work – checking each connection individually. His brows furrowed at Steve’s question. “No?!” He called back, before he looked at the monstrosity that he’d put together over the last two hours. “At least not _yet_ …” he murmured to himself.

 

“The bedroom light’s not work—“ Steve stopped as he walked out of the bedroom, and caught sight of Bucky standing near the kitchen. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

 

Bucky was standing with what was best described as a _Franken-lamp_ in front of him. He’d taken their standing floor lamp and… turned it into a Light Hydra – a light standard with many heads. Three of _ten_ light bulbs were currently turned on, and shining on Bucky as he stood in his trousers and undershirt – the suspenders pushed off his shoulders and hanging loosely around his hips as he examined the creation in front of him. He turned the knob-switch on the original head of the standing lamp, and three more bulbs lit up. He turned it again, and finally all ten bulbs zinged to life.

 

“What the hell…?” Steve breathed softly as he blinked against the bright light that almost seemed to come from Bucky, with the proximity of the hydra to him. He was golden, he was shining and luminous. He was the Bringer of Light, he was Helios, he was Apollo, and any other name by which the ancients had called that being of pure golden illumination that brought light and warmth into the world.

 

Bucky looked up at him and smiled a little sheepishly. “I saw how disappointed you looked when you didn’t have your oils with you this morning. I know you wanted to paint me in that lighting… I can’t afford to buy you a photographer’s light as much as I want to…” he sighed a little. “So… I took all the light sockets out and wired them into this… thing. It’s not nearly as good as a professional light, and it’s probably not the most stable of inventions because I’ve got it wired into three separate outlets at once, and I had to drill out the standing base to fit the sockets in and run the wiring down through the core… it’ll probably be a miracle if I don’t overload the entire building, or the whole block… But…” Bucky swallowed tightly. “I thought, maybe… if you still wanted to paint me…”

 

Steve’s chest tightened with the sudden swell of adoration for Bucky, even as his heart melted. “Buck…” he shook his head gently in disbelief.

 

“If you don’t like it, or don’t want to, I can put it all back in about twenty minutes… shit, I shoulda asked ya first.” Bucky shook his head and turned the Franken-lamp off – the sudden quiet seemed to ring in Steve’s ears, as he realized how distinctly the bulbs had been _singing_ with power.

 

“No!” Steve snorted, suddenly realizing that Bucky was about to start tearing the lamp apart again, after hours of building it just for this purpose. When his friend glanced up at him with a look of confusion, Steve felt himself blushing slightly. “No, I do… I want to paint you… I just… You surprised me is all.” He smiled gently. “But did you even sleep? What time is it?”

 

Bucky shrugged his shoulders a little. “Just after seven, and I did. But I woke up around three, and I couldn’t get back to sleep so I thought I’d do something useful. I walked down to Mr. Martucci’s Hardware and got the roll of electrical wire and a hand drill – well… it’s more of auger… and came back…” his brows furrowed together slightly as he looked up at Steve – his grey irises, glimmering like rich amber in the luminosity of the hydra lamp, narrowing slightly. “I’m rambling a bit… aren’t I?”

 

Steve smiled sadly, knowing Bucky was almost buzzing with exhaustion again. “A bit, but it’s kinda adorable.” He laughed as Bucky scrunched his nose in mild disgust. After a moment, he composed himself. “Why don’t I pull the couch over a bit closer and you can lie in a reclined position, that way even if ya fall asleep on me, I can keep paintin’ ya?” Steve smiled warmly, and laid his hand on Bucky’s sinewy forearm.

 

Bucky resolutely shook his head. “Nah, pal. I saw the way you looked at me in the studio, when I was standin’ in the light. You wanted to paint _that_ , so I’ll stay standin’. Just… bear with me in the morning, pal. I might be pretty Joed by then.”

 

Steve sighed and shook his head, “Buck-“

 

“Stevie.” Bucky responded in the same exasperated, yet flat, tone.

 

“I don’t want ya over doin’ it, jerk. I thought ya were gonna fall ass over teacan when we got home today – you’re not as okay as ya think you are.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes as he stepped away from Steve, “Just get your paints, punk.”

 

“Bucky I really think-“ Steve was suddenly cut short.

 

Bucky had unbuttoned the top of his trousers, and then tugged his undershirt off over his head. He threw it at Steve – purposely ensuring that the slightly sweat-damp cotton landed over Steve’s face in a bid to stop his talking. It had obviously worked.

 

Steve blinked as the warm cotton landed on his face. He was frozen for just a moment, trying to accept that Bucky _had_ just tossed his shirt over his head. The soft fabric smelled like Bucky – the faint traces of the castile soap he used both to wash their clothing, as well as his body, and the last dregs of his aftershave which was either two days old, or minutely reapplied when he woke that afternoon. Over that, was the clinging musk of Bucky’s sweat, and Steve _knew_ he should have been disgusted by the smell of sweat and the slight humid dampness of the cotton. But, he just wasn’t.

 

Grumbling, he reached up and pulled the shirt off of his face, and glared up at Bucky.

 

Bucky who was beaming innocently as he stepped out of his trousers and tossed them and his suspenders aside onto a nearby chair. “What were you saying, Stevie?” he exuded nothing but angelic innocence – which Steve knew was complete bullshit.

 

“Fine.” Steve gripped the undershirt in his hand tightly as he pointed at Bucky with his index finger. “But don’t forget that this was _your_ idea – and I’m keepin’ your shirt!” he quickly added in an attempt at being obstinate.

 

“Whatever ya say, Stevie.” Bucky grinned as he pushed his boxers over his hips and down his thighs before he stepped out of them completely.

 

Steve swallowed tightly around the lump forming in his throat as his eyes unconsciously dropped to Bucky’s naked abdomen. He fought with himself to not let his eyes drop any lower, not now – not while he had no excuse. But, he’d arrived late to class that morning and Bucky had already been completely in the buff on the model stand. He’d not had to witness his friend shedding his clothing. And, even in all the times that Bucky had modeled for him in the privacy of their home, like tonight, Bucky had undressed in the privacy of their bedroom, and walked out naked and ready to be committed to paper and canvas. Steve had never had to watch Bucky strip down. It wasn’t like he’d not seen Bucky naked before – even before he’d started modeling for him. It was one of the pitfalls of living in such close proximity with someone you were comfortable with. Inevitably, nakedness was see, and situations witness that were, perhaps, best left unthought of.

 

It suddenly dawned on Steve that with all the lightbulbs in their apartment currently taken up by the monstrous hydra, that unlike in the professional atmosphere of the life drawing studio in his college, Steve would need to seat himself relatively close to Bucky, in order to see what he was doing in the inky black darkness of the November night. He swallowed tightly again. “I’ll… be right back.” And turned away to grab his kit of oil paints from the three-legged table by their bedroom door.

 

This was going to be difficult.

 

As much as he wanted to capture the glowing, ethereal, beauty of Bucky in that golden light… he was _the only_ artist present. It meant that he no benefit of twenty-odd other student artists to take the heat of Bucky’s attention off of him. It meant that his friend was going to be very intimately aware of the way in which Steve was inevitably going to be looking at him.

 

What he didn’t seem to realize, despite Bucky already stating it, was that he’d noticed the way in which Steve had been looking at him _during class._

Steve stumbled through the darkness of their bedroom, back to the bed, and knelt down. Reaching under the small single bed, he fished out a new canvas that he’d prepped a week or so earlier – and had never been happier that he’d spent the Saturday that Bucky was working, up to his ears in gesso and fighting with the stretcher. Holding it to his chest, he slowly walked back out of the room, still trying to judge the darkness. He grabbed the kit of oils that contained not only the tubes of paint but also his bottle of linseed oil and brushes, and came back to where Bucky was standing with the Franken-lamp. He set the canvas and the old canvas bag the oil kit was in, onto the nearest armchair, and pulled it a little closer to the light as Bucky watched him easily. Steve had to ignore the gaze, as he felt it lingering on him. He knew it was only because Bucky was tired, and enjoyed watching Steve with his art, but it was ever so _slightly_ unnerving tonight. Ignoring it as best he could, Steve walked to the kitchen sink, and filled the old glass mason jar that he kept for painting, and came back to Bucky. With a deep breath, he seated himself on the arm chair and started readying his paints on his palette.

 

When he’d readied the paints, Steve glanced up. “Okay Buck… I’m ready.”

 

Bucky hummed his understanding as he nodded his head and shifted into that same contrapposto pose that he’d had in the studio that morning. Again, Steve nearly gasped as the light from Bucky’s chimerical invention fell over his body. Here in the darkness of the November light, the contrast was further striking; the singing lightbulbs cast brilliant golden light that mixed with the olive-tone of his tan skin and brought out the high-Chroma blaze of warm yellows and oranges that Steve had so desperately wanted to capture that morning. But, unlike the daytime darkness of the studio, the nighttime apartment offered a rich sea of saturated blues, and desaturated mossy greens and violets – shadows that draped over him like a mantle made of the night sky itself. The balance between Eternal Darkness, and Eternal Light, as the light exacerbated the soft curve of his uneven posture especially at the tilt of his hips. It exaggerated the planar qualities of his muscular build, and Steve had to stop and stare for a moment – Bucky looked like David. Michelangelo’s _David_ – carved from some dense stone, and like Pygmalion’s beloved had become a living and breathing entity.

 

Perhaps _Steve_ was more tired than he’d though, as he followed his strange thoughts down the proverbial rabbit hole. He forced himself to focus on the task in front of him, and started mixing colours and blocking out the basic shapes of the light and shadows as they embraced Bucky’s naked form.

 

More than an hour passed.

 

His mind wandered as he studied the way the light turned Bucky’s hair from rich chocolate brown, to a dark red chestnut – focusing on shape of the highlights as he mixed the colour and blocked it in with Bucky’s curls. He looked back, and slowly dragged his eyes lower – studying the play of light off of the corded muscles in Bucky’s neck, and then on the smattering of his chest hair. His eyes continued to drift down as his mind was blankly cataloging the shifts in hue and saturation, mentally mapping out the next stage of the painting as this stage was drying. Steve was looking without seeing – a thousand yard stare settled over his face as his mind worked out just how long it would take for the oils to dry, and if it would be better to set it aside for a few hours before coming back to it – after all it was still early enough in the evening.

 

He seemed to have no concept of where he was looking.

 

Above him, Bucky was smirking smugly, eyes lingering on Steve’s face as he wondered when Steve was going to realize where exactly (or rather at what _part_ of Bucky) he was staring.

 

Steve seemed to drift back into the reality around him, as he concreted the plan in his head for the painting.  But as he drifted back from his reverie, he flushed pink – his cheeks and into the tips of his ears absolutely _burning_ with embarrassment as he realized that he was fixated on Bucky’s sex.  He broke his stare and looked back down at his canvas, clearing his throat to push his humiliation aside. Praying that Bucky hadn’t noticed. He quickly glanced up to Bucky’s face.

 

But, Bucky was looking across the room, as he had been when he first fell into the contrapposto pose for Steve. He was smiling, ever so faintly – only a slight upturn of the feline corners of his mouth – the same beautifully divine expression that he had started with. And Steve relaxed. Bucky hadn’t noticed.

 

“So… seein’ ya this mornin’ was a bit of a shock.” Steve tried to keep his voice level as he mixed another shade of luminous orange with a base of cadmium yellow, and a dab of cadmium red. Blending it smooth with methodical swirls of his paint brush. He lifted his brush and squeezed one eye closed, gauging the colour of the paint against the gleaming section of Bucky’s chest that he was attempting to colour match with the light.

 

Bucky hummed softly – a slow and easy exhale before he spoke and broke he quiet ease of the apartment around them. “McLaughlin asked if I wouldn’ mind modellin’ for the class, when I picked ya up last Monday…” Bucky’s voice was low and soft – warm like the cotton bedsheets that Steve _knew_ he should have let Bucky be curled up in currently.

 

“When we caught that picture and had lunch on the way back to Brooklyn?” Steve glanced up at Bucky’s face.

 

Bucky nodded slightly. “He asked while ya were rollin’ your papers up.”

 

“Why didn’t ya tell me?”

 

“’Cause I didn’t say yes right away. But I figured… well… I’ve done it for _you_ , and it’s not like it’s a seedy profession or anythin’… and a little extra pocket money means I’m not so worried about what’s gonna happen this winter.”

 

Steve nodded in understanding. Winter was _always_ hard for them.

 

“Besides… kinda wanted ta surprise ya…” Bucky chuckled softly and Steve shook his head as he stopped painting – the laughter was causing Bucky’s muscles to quake slightly.

 

“Well, I can definitely say ya managed it. I wasn’t expectin’ ta walk in and see my buddy totally stripped of his kit and naked as the day he was born…”

 

Bucky grinned above him. He had no shame, not when it came to something like life modelling. Or when it came to Steve. Being naked for that purpose wasn’t like being naked for sexual escapades. He was only an object to be put on paper. Even _if_ some of the girls looked at him like he was the sun… and, well, it wasn’t _only_ the girls that looked at him like that, after all.

 

“Ah come on, Stevie. Not like ya haven’t see all of it before.”

 

Steve shook his head disapprovingly. “Buck… you really _do_ need ta sleep. You’re getting’ stupid again.”

 

This time Bucky’s grin was instant and as fast as a cobra strike. His eyes glinted dangerously. The grin didn’t fully reach his eyes, but instead gave him the look of a wicked creature, about to snap its jaws on its unsuspecting prey. “Stupid, eh? And here I thought I was bein’ a good friend by buildin’ ya the world’s first electric hydra – and all ya can do is _insult_ me.”

 

He was only teasing. But, sometimes it didn’t seem like that.

 

Steve swallowed tightly and, honestly, he’d fallen for that look and that tone more often than he’d like to admit. He was trying to find the words to save the situation – he’d not _actually_ meant to insult Bucky. He’d only been playing with him a bit… “I… I didn’t mean _you’re_ stupid – Buck, you’re the smartest man I’ve known – quick as a whip and _brilliant_. You’re the whole package… I just meant you’re pretty tired and you’re talkin’ –“

 

Bucky tossed his head back and laughed. “Christ, Stevie! I _know_ that!”

 

Steve didn’t know if he wanted to smack Bucky, or kiss him. Well, actually he _did_ know. But grabbing Bucky by his ribcage and pulling him close so he could nuzzle between his pectorals where he felt safe and warm to just _hold_ him was _not_ an option.  He shook his head instead. “You’re an ass, Barnes.”

 

Grinning, Bucky shrugged his broad shoulders easily. “Been called worse, pal.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes, but pushed forward on the conversation. “I think the paint’s gotta dry for a few hours, or it’s just gonna turn muddy…”

 

Bucky nodded easily, and stretched his body out, working out the slight kinks that had come with an hour and a half of standing still in contrapposto for Steve.

 

“Why don’t ya go ta bed, Buck… I can work on this anytime. I know ya all over—I know ya wanna fall over.” He quickly caught and corrected himself.

 

 _Steve_ was definitely more tired than he gave himself credit for.

 

Bucky shook his head, “Nah, I can last, Stevie… I’ll sleep later.”

 

“Buck… the paint isn’t going to be dry enough to do much till tomorrow at least.”

 

“Yeah, but if I take apart the hydra to put the light sockets back in all the apartment, I’ll have to take them out again tomorrow so you can work on the painting… not that I mind, but it seems… a little counter-productive, Stevie.”

 

Steve shook his head good-naturedly. “You didn’t have to do _any_ of this, you know that, right?”

 

“Stevie, I don’t _have_ to do anything that I do for ya around here, but I _want_ to… even if I felt a little like Dr. Frankenstein.” He chuckled softly as he carded his fingers back through his hair tiredly.

 

“You’re completely destroyed, Bucky… why’d ya let them take ya in for graveyard last night if ya knew ya had to be in Manhattan this morning?” Steve was honestly curious.

 

“Graveyard pays well… though I _didn’t_ plan on doin’ it. Petey’s wife had the baby and he wasn’t comin’ in, so I agreed to pull the shift too. I _was_ just gonna get up and go with you to class this morning – keep walking with ya to the station instead of turning and headin’ to Clinton Wharf… but at least _this_ way it got to be a complete surprise.”

 

Steve just shook his head. “It was a surprise alright… you’re the … youngest… model we’ve had in two years.” He’d stopped himself from saying what he actually meant – that Bucky was the most attractive male model they’d had in two years. Though the age comment wasn’t inaccurate either. The other youngest model was somewhere between twenty five and thirty, though Professor McLaughlin and he didn’t seem to see eye to eye – Jacob was rarely booked for their class as a result.

 

“Tell me they at least paid ya good?” Steve sighed softly.

 

“I got time and a half, pal. ‘Cause it was so last minute.”

 

Steve’s eyes widened. If Bucky’d made time and half for the seven hours he’d worked over night, than he’d made almost three dollars and fifty cents. It was a good addition to the wage packet, that was for sure. But, it wasn’t worth Bucky’s health and exhaustion.

 

“And what about McLaughlin?”

 

“Fifty cents an hour. A buck fifty is pretty good for three hours work where I’m mostly just standin’ and sittin’, if I do I say so myself.”

 

This time Steve absolutely snorted in surprise. He’d expected the modeling job to pay _less_ than Bucky’s thirty three cents an hour at the docks… but lo and behold… “Buck, that’s great!”

 

Bucky shrugged his shoulders easily. “It’s wonderful – it means less worry when the weather really turns.”

 

Steve huffed softly, irritated. “You don’t have to worry about me that much, you know.”

 

“Oh Stevie…” Bucky sighed softly and with a sorrowful tone. “If only that were true… but I’ve told ya time and time again. I’m here for ya. I’m here, _no matter what_. I’m always gonna be here, Stevie, even if ya don’t like me lookin’ after ya. I love ya too much to let anythin’ happen to ya. You’re my best pal.”

 

Steve flushed a slight pink that he was glad Bucky couldn’t see in the low lighting around him. “I love ya too, jerk. But I’m an adult –“

 

“Don’t mean ya don’t need someone to lean on.”

 

“Yeah? And what about you? Who do you have, Buck? Ya left your parents’ home when my Ma died, and other than the occasional dinner, when do ya ever see them? I’ve taken ya from them and –“

 

Bucky shook his head. This was a terrible conversation to be having with him still naked, but what did it matter? “I’ve got you, like you’ve got me. That’s what matters, punk. And I see my family all the time – I’m late comin’ back most afternoons from mornin’ shift, ‘cause I pick Becca up from school and walk her home. The days I’m _incredibly_ late, are because I stay to help her with her homework, and I do basic tasks for my Ma and Da. I see them all the time, Stevie. You didn’t take me away from ‘em. I don’t see it that way, and neither do they. If anythin’, they’re just glad that we have each other.” A beat passed. “Oh, and they miss ya too, punk. We need to go for dinner with ‘em soon.”

 

Steve blushed, and looked down at his feet. He’d not realized that the Barnes _still_ cared so much about him – they’d even asked for him to move in with them after Sarah had passed away. But, he’d been unable to bring himself to leave the apartment he’d lived in with his Ma behind. And in turn, Bucky had showed up the following morning after that conversation with his meagre belongings, and moved himself right in. He’d put his name on the lease with the landlord, and had immediately taken responsibility for the household – even if it wasn’t necessary. Even if Steve hadn’t really wanted it.

 

But it was because of the Barnes, and their kindness and general attitude that Bucky had grown into the young man that he was – kind and giving – willing to give the shirt off of his back for Steve if Steve asked. Steve briefly thought back to the way Bucky had given his one item of warm clothing, the cardigan, over to Steve that morning – and never took _no_ as an answer. It was because George and Winnifred Barnes had raised their boy right – he was the eldest of their children, and he’d been acting as a nanny for the younger children for years. And he’d never really seemed to mind it. Winnifred had ensured that her son could survive on his own – he was a decent, if not fancy, cook. He could darn socks and patch holes which, given how often Steve ripped his clothing in back alley fights, was a damn good skill for Bucky to have. His father, a Highlander through and through, had ensured that Bucky could knit winter clothing. He just wasn’t very fast with it – George and Winnifred Barnes alike were speedier with wool than Bucky was.

 

Over all, had Steve met any other kid that day in September of ’26, he very likely would have been alone after his mother passed away. But Bucky, and his family, weren’t like just anyone else. Bucky took to domesticity with ease – he took care of Steve when Steve simply _couldn’t_ take care of himself. And he never once complained about it – at least not with any _real_ fire. But, he rarely teased either – never wanting Steve to think that he owed him _anything_.

 

Thanks to the Barneses, Steve still had a family – whether it was _just_ Bucky, or the entire family of six. And, thanks to the Barneses, Bucky was going to make some girl a saintly husband one day.

 

The thought twisted in Steve’s stomach, and he exhaled sharply. “Maybe, if you’re up for it, we can go on Sunday.” Steve forced himself to speak.

 

Bucky nodded as he hummed slightly. “Sounds swell.”

 

It was getting more difficult to deal with the jealousy that he felt. Like some little imp  had burrowed into his heart and simply _hated_ the idea of Bucky with anyone but him. It was ridiculous, and he knew it.

 

He had no claim to Bucky – nothing beyond friendship – and he never would.

 

The sad and simple fact was that he was desperately in love with his childhood best friend – it was the first, and strongest, love that he’d ever felt for another person – love outside of familial bonding. He knew, deep down, that Bucky was probably it for him – his first love, _and_ the love of his life.

 

But, Bucky wasn’t _like that_. And Bucky wouldn’t understand if Steve tried to tell him – hell, he wasn’t sure he understood it much either.

 

He was going to have to live with the fact that the love of his life… would never love him back.

 

And suddenly, painting Bucky naked and luminous… felt like a horrible mistake. But, it was a mistake he was willing to continue if it meant just a little longer in Bucky's glowing presence. A little longer gazing upon the person he loved and basking in the warmth of his light. As long as it meant that he could keep the painting just for himself.

 

Steve Rogers loved Bucky Barnes too much - so much that he had blinded himself to the fact that Bucky loved him too.

 

Who else but someone in love would push themselves passed exhaustion, just to make another person happy?

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Yeah I know it's rude to call anything that Bucky builds a "hydra" ... but it's based on these lamps I had that @thelittlespook loves, and she calls them hydra lamps because they have five arms/heads each. 
> 
> 2\. So, I know in this fic Bucky is 19, so this is honestly not an accurate image of him... but this is basically how I'm seeing Bucky in the mid-late 1930s fics https://66.media.tumblr.com/93dafe896b614af74e4f627f33a1a0da/tumblr_pgc8uenMwP1rvbgfk_500.jpg


End file.
